


closer

by boom_slap



Series: Unlikely Alliances [2]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Body Paint, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Missing Scene, because im the author so i guess, dom/sub is the only way i know, non-edible so good luck losers, they're young and stupid okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27556063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: Andrés doesn't ever want to stop kissing him.Or: the missing scene from my fluffiest creation also known as Unlikely Alliances
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: Unlikely Alliances [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014189
Comments: 24
Kudos: 89





	closer

**Author's Note:**

> Did it take me fifty years to write that? Yes.  
> Did I enjoy it? Yes.
> 
> Takes place between ch. 6 and 7 of [UA](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25512937).
> 
> I've learnt how to paste links onto ao3 in the meantime.

Andrés doesn't ever want to stop kissing him. Martín tastes sweet like Fanta and bitter like alcohol, and Andrés can't get enough of it, tilting his head to the side to try and get his tongue deeper. He's never kissed anyone like that. Never.

Never has anyone before been reaching so desperately for him, grasping at his clothes, pulling him closer, _closer_ , burning up and dizzy.

And the _sounds_ Martín is making. Little whines every time Andrés pulls a millimeter away, grunts every time he pushes against him. 

Andrés is already so hard it's aching; it would be embarrassing if it weren't for the fact that Martín is just as hard. 

It does feel weird, having someone else's cock pressed against his thigh, an insistent reminder that this is new, this is uncharted territory, unexplored possibilities. It confuses him; it makes him shiver with excitement. 

Martín's cock is hard, but his hips are soft where Andrés' fingers are digging in. Andrés presses his thigh further in-between his legs and he has to catch him, wrapping an arm around his waist, letting out a surprised gasp, because Martín almost slides down the wall and onto the floor. 

For the first time in a good few minutes, they take a proper look at each other's faces. 

Martín's eyes are shaped in a way that makes him look sad, almost always, even when he's smiling. It's nothing more than anatomy - and yet, it makes Andrés _ache_. In a good way.

Right now, those absolutely _beautiful_ eyes are darkened by desire and wide with disbelief.

That won't do. How dare Martín be surprised? This was inevitable. If not from the moment they've met, then from that moment at _Dalí's_ or at the very least, the second they lay their eyes on each other at the party which is still going on downstairs.

That disbelief won't do, so Andrés tightens his hold around Martín's waist and smiles at him. Wonderfully, Martín grins right back, wide and understanding, warm.

"Hey," he breathes, leaving Andrés breathless.

"Hey," Andrés whispers and leans in for another kiss that quickly turns into hunger and lust, because neither of them can get enough. 

They push and pull and finally, Andrés starts tearing at Martín's ridiculous - witty, _pretty_ \- costume. It's made of paper and fabric which rips when Andrés claws at it and drags it down. Martín is arching up into his touch until he has nothing but his briefs on; he squirms a little, then, but Andrés keeps him in place. 

He leans down to finally feast on Martín's neck, his mouth opening to taste the skin there when suddenly, there's a hand right against his forehead, fingers slipping into his hair, keeping him away; it's not painful, but it's outrageous. 

The _audacity._

He looks up at Martín, frowning. Martín's eyes are almost perfectly round, as if he's shocked by his own gesture. 

"The, uh-" he says and licks his reddened lips. "The body paint. I don't believe that's edible."

Andrés stares. 

"I can't kiss your neck because you're afraid I'm going to, what, poison myself?" 

"More or less, yeah," Martín nods. It feels good to hear his voice, high and raspy as it is. It's grounding.

Andrés takes a moment to think about it.

He wants to suck a hickey into Martín's neck so bad. _So bad._ He wants to see it in the morning. Then again, the body paint probably doesn't taste so good. Also, it's not like it's a priority. The priority right now is to touch _more_ and, of course, to get off. To see Martín's face when he comes. Andrés nearly grunts at the mere thought of it. 

Yes, he decides. They have time until morning. He'll get his chance to bite and mark and do so much more, as much as he'd like, judging by Martín's excitement now.

The excitement that, apparently, makes him bold, because he reaches for Andrés' collar and opens it, diving in to kiss _his_ neck, mouthing at the sensitive skin with such care, such love, that Andrés lets his head fall back and his eyes close. He sighs, his hand going to Martín's hair, scratching at his scalp.

The fever is back, because Martín is humming, clearly enjoying himself, and his lips are oh so hot against Andrés' throat. 

Andrés feels like an animal that lets itself be exposed, vulnerable; not passive, but trusting and accepting. 

Martín could bite him. 

Martín doesn't.

He reaches for Andrés' tailcoat, instead, pushes it off his shoulders and Andrés lets his hands drop to let it slide down his arms and onto the floor. He kicks it away, not giving a second thought to the paint stains all over it because Martín suddenly pulls back. 

Andrés stares at him and Martín grins, reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

He slows down; he undoes the buttons almost reverently, looking at his hands, not at Andrés' face, but Andrés watches him closely.

Once the shirt is open, Martín slides his hands underneath, over Andrés' ribs and onto his back. Andrés catches him when he falls into his embrace, panting quietly where his face is tucked against Andrés' neck. 

He's been dreaming of that, Andrés realizes. Martín must have been dreaming of that and now, he's finally allowed.

For a moment, Andrés holds him. 

Then, he kneels down, pulling Martín with him so he does the same. Andrés keeps an arm around him and tries to flip them over, to lower Martín onto his back. He fails miserably. Martín is heavier than a girl, after all, so not only he ends up hitting his head against the wooden floor - not too hard, thank fuck - but also Andrés falls on top of him. Gracelessly. 

"Ow, fuck," Martín hisses, massaging the back of his head as Andrés groans and pulls his arm out from under Martín's back.

"Shit," he mutters, resting his forehead against Martín's.

"You can't- you can't really manhandle me like that, you know," Martín murmurs, his breath hitching on a laughter. 

Andrés smiles. 

"Can't I?" he purrs and kisses him hard, his hands sliding to the back of Martín's knees to move his legs up so that he can thrust his hips forward and press their groins together.

Martín gasps into his mouth, wrapping his arms around Andrés' neck. 

" _Yes,_ " he moans and it's the single hottest thing Andrés has ever heard.

Andrés starts to move, to grind against him, seeking friction and pressure, drinking in every sound Martín makes against his lips, kissing him every now and then, or just teasing with his tongue. 

It's not enough. There's still too much fabric between them. Andrés leans back a little and takes off his shirt before reaching down and unbuttoning his pants. He pushes them down a little, along with the underwear, and pulls out his cock, taking a sharp inhale through his nose.

He looks at Martín and sees his staring, mouth slightly agape, so he smirks down at him and slowly strokes himself, just with the tip of his fingers.

"Do you want that?" he asks, raising his chin in a challenge. 

He knows he can be seductive when he wants to. He knows he can be flirty. It's worked on his girlfriends before. He shouldn't be surprised at Martín's wide eyes, at the way he licks his lips as he pulls himself up, but he is. 

It's Martín. His flatmate, his best friend, someone who he trusts, who's never let him down. 

And now, they're taking that bond to a whole new level. It's exciting, but yes, it's a little bit-... scary.

Martín gives him a look and Andrés nods in assurance. He sits back on his heels and watches as Martín lies on his stomach and pries his hand away from his cock with shaking fingers.

The fingers close around the base of Andrés' cock then and they are- they are different, they are rough, calloused, even rougher than Andrés' own, but the touch is soft and delicate. 

It's maddening.

He can't help but groan when Martín presses his lips against the shaft, licks a stripe along its length and then, puts the tip into his mouth.

Andrés takes his face into his hands and Martín looks up at him, lips wrapped around the head of his cock. He looks-

He doesn't look obscene, not really. Well, a little. Most of all though, he looks so _beautiful_ , the blue eyes, the long lashes, the smears of paint over his face, now messy and uneven. 

He looks like a post-impressionist painting- or maybe a cubist one? He makes Andrés think of Braque's sharp lines, bronze and brown and beige.

He strokes his thumbs over Martín's cheekbones and Martín hums, closing his eyes, before he starts sucking on Andrés' cock. 

It's heavenly.

Martín is so good at it. He applies just the right amount of pressure, he takes his time worshipping the head of Andrés' cock, sucking on it and teasing it with his tongue before sliding his lips lower, taking him in deeper.

Andrés lets his head fall back for a moment, closing his eyes. He tries to enjoy the pleasure, but it's not enough for him. 

He wants more from Martín, he wants more _of_ Martín, he wants all of him. 

He opens his eyes and tangles his hand in the hair on the back of Martín's head. When Martín looks at him again, his eyes are glazed over, clouded with desire. He pulls back a little, not letting Andrés' cock out of his mouth, and gives the smallest nod. 

Andrés tightens his hold and brings Martín's head down, lower, _lower,_ and he _takes it._

Andrés almost gasps at the sensation, at the incredible heat and softness and wetness. 

Martín seems okay. He looks… comfortable, almost, so Andrés decides to go for it. He leans back on one hand to have some balance, his other hand still in Martín's hair, and he starts to move his hips, groaning as he does. 

The thrusts are shallow, nothing like one would see in a porn video, but it's the mere fact of this happening that's driving Andrés crazy - Martín's lashes flutter as he closes his eyes and lets Andrés fuck his mouth. 

Over the music coming from downstairs, Andrés can hear the shaky breaths that Martín is taking through his nose. How experienced is he, Andrés wonders, how much can he take? 

Close to an orgasm, he leans forward, puts both of his hands at the back of Martín's head and pulls him in until he swallows around the whole length of his cock.

He keeps him there for a moment, but lets him go when Martín's fingers dig into his thighs almost painfully.

He's not entirely sure what to expect - Andrés may not be the most sensible person on the planet, as he'd been told by his exes _and_ by Sergio, multiple times, but he knows that what he had done just now was, by all means, _a dick move._

Therefore, he watches attentively as Martín pulls away and coughs, tears sticking to his lashes, and Andrés kind of expects to be told off.

He's not. 

Instead, Martín crawls into his lap and kisses him. To someone else, it may be disgusting, the tongue that's just been licking around his cock now slipping into his mouth, but to him, it's not. 

He tastes himself and he tastes Martín. What could possibly be better? 

Andrés kisses back and he's glad to have stopped himself from coming, because he needs to touch Martín, first. He pulls him closer and starts dragging his boxers down as he kisses him, but of course, with Martín straddling him, it's not possible to take the underwear off. 

"Fuck," Andrés murmurs, fingers digging into Martín's ass. "Take it off, now."

Martín has to pull away and stand up, which is admittedly a little awkward since Andrés is still sitting back on his heels.

Martín doesn't take off his boxers.

Andrés' mind fails to register it at first, busy staring at the bulge, at the small wet spot where Martín is surely already leaking precome-

But then, nothing happens, and Andrés frowns, looking up at Martín's face. 

Martín looks unsure.

He looks as if he’s ashamed of his body. A _male_ body. As if he’s afraid that if he exposes himself, Andrés is going to change his mind.

Well, it's true, he's a tad- _nervous_ to be touching another man like that for the first time. But it's _Martín_ and Andrés has made his decision. 

He shuffles closer and puts his hands on Martín's hips, looking him in the eye for a moment before dragging the underwear down just enough to expose his cock; Martín hisses quietly and then almost whines when Andrés nuzzles his abdomen and places a kiss there. 

He keeps his cheek pressed against Martín's hipbone - barely visible, because Martín is just a bit softer than Andrés himself - and slides the boxers all the way down to his ankles. 

"Kick them away," he murmurs and Martín complies. Finally, he's fully naked and the remainants of the body paint look ridiculous over his legs and arms and collarbones, but honestly? It only serves as a reminder that he'd poured bronze paint all over himself just for Andrés. 

He pulls Martín down and back into his lap, into another heated kiss. In the middle of it, he finally reaches down and wraps a hand around Martín's cock.

It's hot and it feels not unlike his own and- not for the first time, he thinks that he and Martín are just the same, in so many ways. Martín moans into the kiss and his pleasure courses through Andrés as well, makes him tighten his fist; they both arch their backs, chests pressing together. 

It's new, but it's not strange. 

He moves his hand slowly, swallowing down every shuddering breath Martín lets out.

Martín starts bucking his hips into the touch and Andrés stops, holds him tight, looks him in the eye, sees the desperation and desire; it makes him dizzy all over again. 

"I want to-" he starts and doesn't know how to finish, how to phrase this, so instead he lets his hand slide from Martín's waist to the curve of his ass. 

Martín grins, although it's shaky, it's as if his face forgot how to express anything other than need. 

"Give me your hand," he whispers. 

Andrés complies.

He can't wait until he _knows_ , until the moment he's used to this enough to know exactly what to do and how to do it. He can't wait to be able to lead, completely, because Martín is younger, more- _fragile_ , because Martín is his to take and his to take care of. 

And Andrés will. 

But for now, this is exciting, too, the way Martín sucks on his fingers and licks around them, scraps his teeth over the soft skin; it's not just for the purpose of getting them wet, no, it's pleasure in and out of itself. 

Satisfied, Martín lets go of his hand after a moment and wraps his arms loosely around Andrés' neck. 

"I would have let you fuck me without lube," he mutters, eyes half-closed. "But you'd be mad if I did and it hurt, wouldn't you?" 

Oh, how well he knows him. How good he's being. 

Andrés nearly groans when Martín spreads his legs a little bit more; he's kneeling over Andrés' lap and as he moves, his knees scrape over the wooden floor.

"You'll have to talk," Andrés says, his voice coming out hoarse as he puts his hand on Martín's ass again and squeezes, fingertips so close to where they both want them. "Can you do that for me, Martín? Tell me _everything_?"

Martín only nods. He's about to say something, but Andrés presses one finger inside and the only thing that comes out of his throat is a gasp.

He spreads his legs further, presses himself closer. 

Just from one finger; from half a length of it.

"Talk to me."

"In and out," Martín whispers into his neck, his voice shaky. "For a moment, and then you can- you can move it around."

Andrés does. It's fascinating how Martín clenches and relaxes around the intrusion, how he inhales deeply through his nose, trying to keep his composure, having more experience than Andrés does. Still, that won't be for long. Andrés is a quick study. 

A curious one, too: he pulls his finger out and massages the entrance itself, grinning when Martín shivers in his arms before pushing back in, moving in slow circles. 

"If you'd just curl it up and stroke-... there!" Martín whines and Andrés is not an idiot, he knows what a prostate is, but he wouldn't have expected the reaction to be so vocal, the pleasure so evident.

He presses on and Martín starts squirming in his lap, arching his spine and pressing back onto Andrés' finger as if it were a cock. 

"Do you like that?" 

He breathes the question right into Martín's ear, just to make sure, to keep him talking, to hear his voice again, so changed now. 

"Yes," is all Martín can muster, arm sliding against the back of Andrés' neck as he moves. They're sweaty, their skin burning up; Martín's cheeks are all red, so are the tips of his ears, and Andrés guesses that his must be the same.

He presses a second finger in and they _both_ groan at how tight it is, how _hot hot hot._

Martín lets his hand run over Andrés' shoulder and then down his chest; he puts it on his cock, then, and the touch is not shy, but it is delicate; his fingertips are not soft, but the way they move as he strokes him is-

It's loving. That's the word. He's _caressing_ Andrés, even though his hand is shaking a little. 

"Yes," Andrés says, repeating the word that left Martín's lips just a moment ago. 

He's feeling strangely vulnerable, although he knows that he still has control; he's close to being overwhelmed by the fact that it's his best friend, his favourite person, his dearest companion that he has writhing and moaning over him. It's like the final piece of a puzzle has just fallen into place. 

They move in tandem and although they're desperate, it seems that they've reached an unspoken consensus to stretch it out as much as possible without turning it into torture.

Still, Andrés can feel the heat pooling in his groin, the shivers running down his spine; his wrist is starting to cramp, which is _so_ annoying, so he reaches with his other hand to wrap his fingers around Martín's cock. 

" _Ahhhh_ ndrés…" 

Not quite a moan, not quite a sigh, but definitely Andrés' new favourite sound.

He's always been the artist, the painter, but for once, a more technical comparison comes to his mind as they continue to rut against each other. Martín is like a beautiful piece of machinery, pushing and pulling and panting, relentless in the way he follows Andrés' fingers, his muscles tensing and relaxing under his skin.

"Look at you…"

Andrés is well aware that fondness seems to be dripping from his voice, laced with- jealousy, a little bit.

Is that how Martín was with others? Did they get to see this, too? If they did, Andrés is sure they haven't been able to appreciate it properly. _Nobody_ is able to appreciate Martín as much as Andrés does.

He pushes the fingers deeper, drags them over Martín's prostate and Martín gasps, arching his back, Andrés' name falling from his lips again. 

Now, that's what Andrés wants to hear. Martín is his. 

Their movement grows erratic, hands stroking quicker, harder, with less finesse. Not that it matters; what matters is that it's Martín that's shamelessly pressing himself against him, losing himself in pleasure. 

Andrés is getting lost in it, too, but he won't let that moment slip away from him, so he brings their foreheads together, parted lips only a breath apart, and Andrés' eyes want to squeeze shut, but he fucking _refuses_ to do that. 

He needs to look.

Martín is looking right back, through his lashes, _watching him_ , drinking him in. The hand that isn't around Andrés' cock travels up and into his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp. 

It feels heavenly; Andrés ignores the pain in his wrist, he really fucks Martín with his fingers until finally, Martín comes-

Or more like, he starts coming, because it seems to last longer than the orgasms Andrés is used to having. It seems earth-shattering, a hoarse scream tearing itself out of Martín's throat, his whole body tensing. 

He clenches around Andrés' fingers and Andrés wonders how it would feel around his cock. That's enough to drive him over the edge, too, that and the trembling hand still clumsily stroking him, because even through his haze, Martín is still so willing to please, so caring, so _good._

His thighs shake, but he doesn't know if it's because of the waves of pleasure overwhelming him or because of Martín still shivering above him.

Slowly, his senses start coming back to him. He realizes that the little studio is colder than it seemed, he realizes that both him and Martín are covered in sweat and paint, their stomachs and hands slippery with come. 

He tries to be careful as he lets go of Martín's cock and pulls his fingers out to wrap both arms around Martín's waist, their foreheads still touching. 

"My hand-... fuck, I don't have tissues," Martín murmurs and Andrés reaches to the side, where his tailcoat is discarded. He wipes his own fingers over it and hands it to Martín. 

"I don't think I'll be able to return it anyway," he says and grins when Martín barks out a hoarse laugh. Then, Martín laughs harder as he drops his gaze. 

"What?" 

"The whole costume is ruined, even the thighs. I can't believe you kept them on."

"Yet, you still wanted me," Andrés remarks teasingly. 

Martín's eyes snap back up. For a moment, he looks hesitant, so Andrés leans in to kiss him again before he has any chance to voice whatever doubts he may be having. 

He doesn't lick into his mouth this time, only presses their lips together for a brief moment and barely pulls away before whispering:

"We should get back downstairs, we're going to freeze up here. I'm afraid your costume is more ruined than mine, though."

Martín glances to the side, at his discarded briefs. 

"Fuck."

They end up tiptoeing down the stairs, listening intently. There's no music, so Andrés slips into the flat and then, opens the door wider and gestures for Martín to walk in. 

"They seem to have evacuated."

Martín looks half-happy, half-disbelieving, and so Andrés makes it his goal to change that. He doesn't do things halfway.

That's why, even though his own heart is betraying him with a nervous flutter, he pulls Martín into the bathroom, into the shower, where he cleans him and touches him and strokes him until Martín comes again with a strangled moan, hands pressed against the steamed glass of the shower stall. 

By all means, they should be tired. They are, or at least Andrés is, with alcohol slowly evaporating from his system, with limbs heavy and eyelids drooping, but it doesn't stop him from keeping Martín under the hot stream of water, from smiling into yet another kiss when he feels Martín's arms wrapping themselves around his neck, skin against skin. 

He pulls Martín into his bedroom, then, and isn't it wonderful that Andrés keeps pulling him in and Martín _lets him_ , he follows, blindly, trustfully, wholeheartedly.

Andrés hands him a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from his own closet, not because it would inconvenience them in any way to drop by Martín's room, but because he wants to see him in _his_ clothes. 

Over the laundry detergent and the shower gel, Martín still smells like himself. The bed is too small and Andrés for once doesn't feel like it's a problem. 

He wraps his arms around Martín and presses his nose right behind his ear. He's almost falling asleep when Martín starts squirming. 

For a brief moment, Andrés wonders if Martín is going to bolt like a scared animal, but then he realizes that Martín doesn't know where to put his hands. He grumbles and huffs quietly until Andrés hums, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he loosens his hold. 

"Closer?" he asks and of course that was exactly the issue, because Martín turns around and drapes himself over his chest, and Andrés doesn't like admitting to being wrong, and he wasn't wrong _per se_ , he was right by wanting to spoon, but maybe Martín's choice is just a little bit _righter._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure I've subconsciously stolen the _dick move_ joke from our reigining Porn Queen and my dear friend, [Shotgun_Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/pseuds/Shotgun_Cake), I hope I'll be forgiven


End file.
